


down came the lightning on me

by ladililn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Jealous Arthur, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Arthur, Oblivious Walnut, Pining, Roommates, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-13 00:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16006403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladililn/pseuds/ladililn
Summary: Plot twist: it turns out Arthur doesn't have any problem with Merlin kissing guys if it's Arthur he's kissing.





	1. all laid out like a tarot

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this RL true story](https://www.gaystarnews.com/article/straight-guy-worries-hes-homophobic-gay-roommate-ends-falling-love/#gs.BZj_2Cg) (at least I hope it's true and I never want to learn any different) about a hilarious case of jealousy-mistaken-for-homophobia that Shakespeare would've been proud to have written. I also owe a debt to [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931381?view_full_work=true) Avatar fic for introducing me to the story (and for being adorable in its own right). I've since found multiple versions adapted for different fandoms, and couldn't resist trying my hand at it for my #1 OTP.
> 
> I'm trying this new thing of throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks re: writing in general and fic in particular, to try to get over various issues with perfectionism and long-windedness and whatever the exact opposite of being prolific is. Given that this story takes more than 3000 words to arrive at the inciting incident, things aren't looking great on the succinctness front. But given that I am posting this rather than leaving it as a forever unfinished 4000-word draft in my Merlin folder (s/o to...so many forever unfinished drafts), maybe there's hope for the other things.
> 
> Title is from [End of the Day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DRyynVNQCgM) by One Direction. Chapter titles from various Troye Sivan songs.

Arthur can’t remember when, exactly, he became aware that Merlin was gay.

All he knew about Merlin before he moved in was that he was, like Arthur, just out of uni, needed a place to live, and (based on the fact that they had a friend in common, and that that friend was Lancelot) probably not a terrible person and/or murderer.

The day Merlin moved in, Arthur naturally learned more, most of it benign. Merlin has extremely blue eyes and ridiculous ears. He’s originally from a village just over the border in Wales. He owns an impressive (if mismatched) collection of Doctor Who mugs.

It’s not that Arthur doesn’t _have_ a gaydar, but he’s never considered it particularly fine-tuned. It’s never really needed to be. He’s been right about people before, but he’s also been wrong. When he meets Merlin, he thinks, _maybe_. He is wearing extremely tight jeans, and if _Queer Eye_ has taught Arthur anything—but then again, he could just be tragically hip.

(That’s all the thought Arthur gives to it that first day, mostly due to alarm at finding himself trying to work out someone’s level of “hip” at the ripe old age of twenty-three. It reminds him worryingly of that time Gaius tried to tell Arthur he looked “on fleek.” A shudder passes through him, and he quickly volunteers to help carry some of the heavier boxes from Merlin’s car, just to distract himself.)

 

It was a gradual realization, Arthur realizes now. With the benefit of hindsight, he can pick out little signs that built up over time. Merlin keeps a little rainbow flag on his desk. He claims his favorite Marvel hero is Spider-Man, yet it’s always one of the _Thor_ s he suggests putting on, dropping in plenty of appreciative comments about Chris Hemsworth’s…well, everything. He was really excited to go to a Kylie Minogue concert that one time.

Any of these things on their own can hardly be called proof. Merlin could just be an ally. The Kylie Minogue thing is a stereotype. And even Arthur, a straight man, can appreciate Chris Hemsworth’s impressive physique, floppy golden hair, and sparkling blue eyes. He’s not _blind_. But by the time Arthur gets solid confirmation, he realizes he doesn’t need it.

“Is that an Arsenal hoodie?”

They’ve been living together for about six weeks, and in that time they’ve established a good rapport. Arthur’s past experience with roommates ranges from the mediocre to the dismal, and it’s something of a revelation to _not_ constantly be doing the mental maths on when he can leave his room to go to the loo without running into his roommate, risking—horror of horrors—being drawn into conversation. Indeed, so far every time one of them gets home from work to find the other in the common area, the perfunctory “How was your day?” has turned into an hours-long conversation lasting until one of them gets hungry, at which point they end up eating dinner _together_ , a.k.a. hanging out on _purpose_ , something Arthur has never once done with someone he shares a living space with, not excepting his own family.

It’s gotten so that Arthur considers Merlin a friend. Except that this is the first time in six weeks Arthur has seen _that hoodie_ , so he may have spoken too soon. It’s big on Merlin—although given how damn skinny Merlin is, most jumpers are—and he has the sleeves pulled down over his palms, keeping his hands warm while he waits for the kettle to boil.

Merlin looks sheepishly down and shrugs. “It was my ex’s. He was a rabid fan.”

“Well, I see why you’re not still with him then,” Arthur says snottily, taking a sip of coffee. He’s using one of Merlin’s TARDIS mugs, which can hold a significantly more liquid than any of the perfectly-matched pieces of the pricey ceramics set Arthur’s father had given him for Christmas, which has been gathering dust in the cabinet since Merlin moved in.

Merlin snorts. “He did put the _arse_ in _Arsenal_.” Arthur throws a wadded-up napkin at Merlin’s face, because that was a terrible joke.

“You’re not still hung up on him, are you?” Arthur waggles his eyebrows. “Wearing his clothes around the home and all that.”

Merlin shakes his head. “Just on his jumper. Feel this.” He rubs Arthur’s cheek with a hoodie-clad hand. The material is surprisingly soft, and Arthur grabs Merlin’s wrist when he tries to pull away, rubbing against his hand like a cat. Merlin laughs.

“Fair play,” he says, releasing Merlin at last. “At least you got something out of the relationship, eh?”

“I always do,” Merlin says with a wink.

Somewhere in the back of Arthur’s mind, he makes a note to get Merlin a Chelsea hoodie for his birthday (or Christmas, whichever comes first—Arthur’s not quite sure). He’ll look good in blue, and however soft the Arsenal hoodie may be, Arthur can hardly allow it in his _home_.

It’s not until several minutes later, when Merlin is sat across from Arthur, hands wrapped around a mug disturbingly modeled on Matt Smith’s head, quietly reading on his iPad, that Arthur realizes Merlin’s use of the male pronoun. And then he realizes he already knew, had reached some kind subconscious conclusion about the matter; he would have been surprised if Merlin _had_ referenced an ex-girlfriend.

Merlin looks up and says “Did you know armadillos are bulletproof?”, which is enough of a non sequitur to drive all thoughts of sexuality and identity and epistemology right out of Arthur’s head.

 

So that’s that, then.

Nothing changes, of course. Arthur’s perfectly cool with it, and fortunately well past his phase of feeling smug and self-congratulatory about how cool with it he is. (In Arthur’s defense, that phase didn’t last long, triggered by one of his mates from footy coming out in sixth form. Morgana rolled her eyes and told Arthur he didn’t deserve a cookie for meeting the bare minimum of human decency, which he thought a bit unfair. For one thing, he _was_ the absurdly privileged son of a conservative MP, which at the very least made his accepting attitude a bit more hard-won. For another, he hadn’t _asked_ for a cookie. Which wasn’t to say he wouldn’t accept one if it were offered. He’d hate to be rude, and also: free cookie.)

Anyway, life goes on. What starts as Star Wars Night morphs into a more general Movie Night when they run out of films set in a galaxy far, far away, and what started as unintentional hanging out after work morphs into the expected status quo. Arthur tries to get Merlin into football and Merlin tries to get Arthur into podcasts, and both are equally unsuccessful.

“You know, Luke Skywalker’s actually quite fit,” Merlin says, while they’re still in the Star Wars phase of their cinematic journey, midway through _Empire Strikes Back_.

“Really?” Arthur pushes up on his elbows, peering at Merlin curled up on the other end of the sofa. “I always thought people of your persuasion went more for Han Solo.”

“People of my persuasion?” Merlin repeats, lips quirking. Arthur rolls his eyes and flops back down.

“You know what I mean,” he mutters.

“You’re not wrong,” Merlin allows. “I was definitely focused more on Han when I was younger. But—just _look_.” He waves a hand at the screen.

Arthur looks. Mark Hamill does look quite good in this one, he supposes. With his dark blond hair plastered to his forehead, those starry eyes, showing off his surprisingly well-muscled arms.

“Besides, even if Han swings both ways—or all ways, more likely—it’s a lost cause. He’s totally gone for Leia. It’d never work. You have to take these things into consideration.”

“Do you?” Arthur tears his eyes away from the screen. “When talking about fictional characters?”

Merlin shrugs, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. One piece escapes and lands on the sofa near Arthur’s foot. They have a quick silent conversation, and then Arthur picks the piece of popcorn up with his toes—all the more impressive given that he’s wearing socks—and lifts his leg to launch it at Merlin’s open mouth. It misses by a wide margin and lands somewhere on the floor.

Merlin makes a face. “Bit of a relief, really. Anyway, I guess you don’t _have_ to, but it does bear thinking about. Luke, for instance, I might have a chance with. He’s gayer than a maypole, that one.”

“Is he?” Arthur’s gaze returns to the screen, but the scene has changed, back to Han and Leia on the run from the empire. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about his preferences at all. I suppose I thought he was celibate. Monklike.”

He nudges Merlin’s foot with his own and opens his mouth. The piece of popcorn Merlin throws (by hand, this time) lands perfectly, a satisfying _crunch_ between Arthur’s teeth.

“That’s what I thought too, when I was younger,” Merlin says. “Before I had words to put to…what I felt. Who I was.”

After _Empire_ ends, Merlin cues up a deleted scene from _A New Hope_ , featuring Luke with his doomed best friend Biggs, and Arthur has to admit that Luke Skywalker is indeed very, very gay.

 

After that, Arthur becomes—not _obsessed_ , just _interested_ , maybe—in which men Merlin does and does not find attractive.

“Smith or Tennant?”

Merlin makes a face. “Tennant, I suppose.”

The next day, while Merlin does dishes: “Will or Harry?”

“Harry, obviously. Has anyone answered Will since about 1999?”

Later, while Merlin chops vegetables: “Is Benedict Cummerbund hot?”

Merlin jumps. “Jesus, Arthur! I could have lost a thumb.”

“Well?”

Merlin shoulders him aside so he can open the fridge and refuses to answer.

Merlin thinks he’s achieved a breakthrough when Arthur asks him to take the headphones off so he can hear whatever podcast episode Merlin is listening to. Merlin cranks up the volume, the sound of laughter filling the flat.

“It’s a woman!” Arthur says, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

“So?”

“I thought maybe you were listening to some bloke with a particularly sexy voice or something.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and shoves the headphones back on.

A few weeks later, Merlin glances up at the TV and says, “He’s hot. Who’s he?”

Arthur stares. “That’s _Lionel Messi_ , Merlin, as I’ve tried to tell you multiple times.”

“Well, he was smaller then,” Merlin says, like that’s a reasonable argument. “I couldn’t tell from far away.”

“You think _Messi’s_ hot?” Arthur turns back to the TV, trying to get his mind around this. “What, more than Beckham?”

Merlin wrinkles his nose. “Not really my type, Becks.”

Arthur frowns, studying Messi’s profile. The camera is caressing him in a loving close-up. “He looks like Lancelot.”

“You think?” This is the most Arthur has managed to get Merlin to look up from his phone in more than three hours of heart-pounding World Cup Round of 16 play. Merlin tilts his head. “Yeah, I can see a bit. Might just be the hair though.”

“Who d’you think’s hotter: Lancelot or me?”

Merlin chokes on air. “I am not answering that.”

“C’mon, play along. I won’t be offended.”

“Why’s it so important to you, who I find attractive? Have you spent the past two decades just dying to know which blokes gay guys consider hot?”

Arthur shrugs. “Always interesting to hear a different perspective, isn’t it? It’s like when _The Other Boleyn Girl_ came out, and they did a study that found all the straight men thought Scarlett Johansson was the tits—sorry, pun not intended—and all the straight women thought Natalie Portman was obviously the more attractive.”

“That does not sound like real science.”

“I’m paraphrasing.”

“Shouldn’t you be more concerned over which men _women_ find attractive? Straight women?”

“I am,” Arthur says. “Case in point: that party, a few weeks ago. Your friend Gwen. She met me and Lancelot at basically the same moment, yeah?”

Merlin looks mystified. “I guess.”

“Okay, but looks-wise—leaving personality aside for a moment—”

“Smart move. Personality’s not your strong suit.”

Arthur ignores him. “The whole idea of love at first sight is entirely appearance-based, isn’t it? That’s all you can tell until you start talking. And looks-wise, Lancelot and I are pretty well matched.”

Merlin snorts, but doesn’t interrupt.

“We don’t look much alike, but we’re both good-looking blokes. In walks Gwen, and right away she goes for Lancelot. I mean, not literally. She didn’t jump him. But you could tell.”

“Did you want her to go for you?” Merlin asks, surprised.

“What?” That interpretation hadn’t occurred to Arthur, and it frustrates him that Merlin doesn’t seem to get it. “No, that’s not the point. The point is, Lance is _objectively_ no better-looking than I am—”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Get you.”

“—so what is it? What makes someone drawn to Person A over Person B?”

Merlin shrugs. “Comes down to taste, I suppose. Everyone has a type.”

People say that, but Arthur doesn’t know if he has a type. When he thinks of all the women he’s dated—all those he’s hooked up with, or even just found attractive—he can’t find a pattern at all. They’ve been tall and short, slim and curvy, dark-haired and light-, tomboyish and girly. He can’t make sense of it.

He wonders whether Merlin has a type. If he does, Arthur can’t discern it. They played a few rounds of Fuck, Marry, Kill at that same party, and almost all of Merlin’s answers surprised Arthur. He chose to fuck Thor (who Arthur thought he’d marry), marry Captain America (who Arthur thought he’d kill) and kill Loki (who Arthur thought he’d fuck). It’s mystifying.

Arthur almost opens his mouth to ask. To find out whether, sexuality and availability aside, Merlin prefers the Luke Skywalker type—wide-eyed, towheaded hero of myth and legend, good with a sword, brave and pure of heart—or the Han Solo type—rugged, sarcastic, wry, bit of an ass, quick with an insult, tender beating heart beneath a gruff exterior. Arthur isn’t sure what he hopes Merlin’s answer will be.

He catches himself. Why would he _hope_ anything about Merlin’s preferences? It’s nothing to do with him. Besides, Merlin’s gaze has returned to his phone; the moment’s passed, at least for now, and Arthur lets it go without struggle.

 

Lancelot and Gwen are officially together, which Arthur thinks might prove his point, except he’s forgotten what his point actually was. Regardless, they’re well-matched, and Arthur is happy for them. The only problem is that Merlin seems to believe that Arthur is sick with love for Gwen, suffering through some kind of noble but depressing drama of unrequited feelings. Arthur’s not sure how to put him straight without coming off like he’s protesting too much.

“Sounds like Gwen and Lance had a fun trip,” he tries, after they’ve returned from an evening at the pub. “I’ve never been to Alton Towers.”

“It’s not that great,” Merlin says quickly, voice full of sympathy. Arthur gives up.

“Did you get on all right with Gwaine?” he asks instead. “He didn’t show you his mole, did he? He’s always doing that with new people; scared off one of my girlfriends that way.”

Merlin laughs. “Gwaine was great. I can’t believe I didn’t meet him sooner.”

“Well, he’s been away a while.” Arthur can’t help feeling pleased. He’s lately been feeling odd and a little guilty about Merlin being the only non-straight person among their shared friends, worrying that Merlin felt like a diversity token. Finally getting to introduce him to Gwaine feels like Arthur has somehow proven himself. (Luckily, Gwaine’s bisexuality came up naturally in conversation, saving Arthur from having to try to awkwardly shoehorn it in.)

“Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”

Arthur freezes. He suddenly feels like an idiot for this situation not having occurred to him.

“I think he might be,” he says vaguely.

He instantly feels guilty for lying. He has no idea about Gwaine’s current relationship status one way or another.

“I could be wrong,” he adds, a slight backtrack. “It’s just…” He searches for an explanation, a reason behind the knot of anxiety in his gut at the thought of Gwaine and Merlin—two people Arthur very much cares about, and who seem to get along excellently—dating. “Gwaine’s a bit of a player. You know. Great friend, maybe not such a great boyfriend. I don’t want to throw him under the bus or anything, but I wouldn’t recommend—well. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Merlin’s giving him an odd look. “Okay,” he says, seeming to accept this, and the knot loosens, and Arthur can breathe again.

 

They’ve been living together for about six months when everything goes to shit.

“Merlin, do you have a—” The next word dies in Arthur’s throat. Someone is in Merlin’s bed. A not-Merlin someone. A male, shirtless someone, looking sleep-rumpled and startled, staring at Arthur who has just burst in the room.

“A what?” Merlin’s face pokes around his wardrobe door. His tone and expression are deliberately casual, but his ears are pink. For a slow, stupid moment, Arthur wonders why Merlin doesn’t step out from the closet—pun _not_ intended, fucking Christ—and then he realizes that Merlin is probably in the process of getting dressed.

After having sex. With this…man.

“Pen.”

Merlin nods toward his desk. “Take your pick.”

Arthur grabs a pen, trying not to look anywhere, at anyone. He clears his throat to apologize, but the words stick in his throat. Instead he beats a hasty retreat, picking up the pad of sticky notes he’d meant to write on from the kitchen table and holing up in his room. He can’t be out there in the common area, waiting for—what? Merlin and his guest to emerge and cook each other breakfast? The man must have spent the night. Does that mean they’re serious? Or is this just a one night stand? Arthur catches himself straining to hear into the other room and jams on his headphones. Why can’t he stop thinking about his roommate’s love life? The only thing he can compare it to is when he walked in to find his first roommate at uni getting his dick sucked—but even that turned into a funny story down at the pub five minutes later, and a half-forgotten memory ten minutes of drinking after that. Arthur can’t get the image of Merlin in bed with whoever-the-fuck out of his mind.

He finally deems it safe to emerge around one o’clock, when his stomach has started growling loud enough to be heard over the music pouring out of his headphones. Merlin is sitting fully dressed at the kitchen table, munching on cereal, the shirtless (or completely naked, probably—the sheets made it hard to tell—not that it matters—) man from earlier nowhere to be seen.

“Hey,” Arthur says, crossing to the cabinets.

“Hey.” Merlin smiles; their eyes meet, and then Arthur quickly slides his gaze away. He can’t remember what normal eye contact is like. It’s like when you become aware of your blinking and suddenly you’re either blinking way too much or too little.

“Sorry about earlier.” He opens the fridge and pretends to be regarding its contents, even though he knows what he wants, just for the extra five seconds of time it will buy him.

“It’s all right. Sorry I didn’t warn you Gilli would be staying over. It was kind of a last minute thing.”

 _Gilli_. Arthur sits down, moving Merlin’s mug out of the way so he has a place to set his plate. What a stupid name.

He shrugs. “Could have been worse,” he says. He has to make things normal between them again, so he tells the story of walking in on his roommate getting a blowie. “Most disturbing part was that the girl didn’t stop. Not even a moment’s pause. It was about negative six degrees out, so I had to cross the room to get my coat, and—honestly, I just had to admire her commitment.”

Merlin throws his head back, laughing, and Arthur finds himself grinning despite himself. For a moment, anyway, until he sees it—a pinkish-purple bruise on Merlin’s pale neck. A love bite.

Arthur looks away quickly, down at his plate. Suddenly he doesn’t feel so hungry anymore.


	2. we can just dance to this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks for your comments and kudos thus far. ♥

“Do you dance, Merlin?”

“I won’t dance, don’t ask me!” Merlin belts, leaning over to peek into the oven. Arthur waits. After a moment or two Merlin catches sight of him and seems to realize there was a question he was meant to answer. “Hmm?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows.

“Oh. Well. It depends what you mean…by dancing.”

“What on earth do you _think_ I mean?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “There’s different kinds, you know. Everyone can do a bit of bump and grind in the club, can’t they?”

“Bump and grind?” Arthur’s lips quirk. “Could I get a demonstration, R. Kelly?”

Merlin turns back to the stove, neck reddening. “You’ve had one already,” he says. “Remember that girl at Camelot the other night?”

“That does ring a bell. Redheaded girl? More buxom than not?”

“Calm your tits, Belinda Blumenthal.”

“You know I don’t understand half your references.”

Merlin shrugs. “Your loss.”

Arthur returns to the topic at hand. “It’s an actual dance. My cousin’s getting married, and I’m supposed to learn all these steps in advance. Who ever heard of assigning homework for a wedding? It’s ridiculous. If it weren’t for the free booze I wouldn’t go at all. Well, that and the fact that Dad would kill me.”

“What kind of dance?”

“I think it’s called…Roomba?”

“That’s a vacuum.”

“Zumba?”

“Fitness craze for stay-at-home moms.”

“Zamba? Samba? Sambo? Mambo? Mamba?”

“One of those is a kind of snake, and one is definitely a racial slur. The other ones could be dances, I don’t know.”

Arthur groans, knocking his head on the table.

“I can’t help if you don’t know what it is,” Merlin says mercilessly. He’s stirring something on the stove that smells delicious. Arthur’s never had this with a roommate before either: shared meals, portions carefully measured out for two. He would feel guilty except that Merlin loves to cook, and who is Arthur to deny him life’s little pleasures? Besides, it’s not like Arthur _never_ contributes. He doesn’t know many dishes, but the ones he does—penne all'arrabbiata, chicken fried rice, anything on the grill—he’s absolutely mastered. Even Merlin has had to admit Arthur’s burger-flipping skills are unequalled.

Arthur pulls up the email from his cousin on his phone. “‘Rumba.’ Is that not what I said?”

“You said Roomba.”

“I think I might’ve said Rambo.”

“Who’s on first, what’s on second, I don’t know—third base.”

Arthur stares. “Are you having a stroke?”

“You’re a philistine,” Merlin says, sliding a plate to Arthur and sitting down with his own. Arthur peers closely into his eyes, just in case. They look focused enough, so he lets Merlin’s slip into word salad go.

There’s a video linked in the email. Merlin scoots his chair closer, and Arthur tilts the phone so he can see. It’s a Latin dance, with all the sensuality that implies—rolling hips, lots of hands, a dark-haired man in a black turtleneck and a woman in a dangerous slit dress.

“Doesn’t look too hard,” Merlin says.

“I don’t dance,” Arthur says flatly. Merlin bursts out laughing.

“Sorry, it’s just—that’s literally a line from _High School Musical 2_. There’s a whole song-and-dance about it.”

Arthur holds up a warning finger. “Before you ask, that’s not going to be our next movie night.”

“Of course not,” Merlin says, spearing an asparagus stalk with his fork. “We’d have to—”

“We’re not watching the first _High School Musical_ either.”

Merlin pouts, then seems to get an idea. “What about—”

“Nor _Footloose_.”

Merlin sighs dramatically, flopping back in his chair. “Do you want my help or not?”

“I don’t know. You haven’t actually confirmed you can dance. Honestly, now that I think about it for more than a quarter second, I don’t know why I asked to begin with. You’re the opposite of graceful, what with how often you fall over.”

Merlin glares. “I am not _that_ clumsy.”

“Did I not hear you fall down in the shower this morning?”

Merlin goes bright red. “No,” he mutters unconvincingly. Then, in a blatant attempt to redirect: “I don’t know why you think you’re such an arbiter of talent. I’ve seen you do karaoke.”

“Don’t be bitter. My rendition of _Kiss from a Rose_ brought people to tears.”

“Brought _you_ to tears. _While_ you were singing—actually, that’s not quite accurate. I’ve heard singing. That wasn’t it.”

“You’re a very cruel man, Merlin Emrys. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Arthur takes a large bite of risotto. “This is delicious, by the way,” he says, mouth still full.

“Charming.” Merlin, who’s only had a bite or two of his own so far, gets up to check the oven. That’s the one thing he needs improving on, Arthur thinks. He never gets the timing right. He stuck a couple of pie crusts in the oven around the same time he started dinner, and now Merlin can’t even sit down to a proper meal. (Not that Arthur’s complaining. After all: pie.)

Arthur cues up another rumba video so he can study while he eats. He finds himself humming along with the music, bopping his head to its rhythm. Merlin is cradling a bowl of cherry filling, scraping it out into the pie crusts, all while—

“You _can_ dance!”

Merlin jumps, looking guilty. As though getting caught gyrating his hips in time to music is the worst sort of crime—which, as far as Arthur is concerned, it is. He fixes Merlin with an accusatory glare.

“Merlin,” he says, grave as the tomb, “can you twerk?”

The video Arthur was watching ends before Merlin can answer, and Arthur frowns, turning back to press the replay button. “Sorry, continue what you were doing.”

“What, swaying my hips?” Merlin looks torn between amusement and embarrassment, the combination of which Arthur is quite enjoying watching play out. “It’s not rocket science.”

Despite his protests, and perhaps against his very will, the beat seems to get to him anyway. (It’s a very catchy tune, in fairness.) Merlin finishes scraping out the bowl, hips rolling exactly like the woman in the video—Arthur knows, because he keeps looking between the two. He’s fairly certain if he tried that he would just look like he badly needed a pee.

“Would you stop looking at my ass?”

Arthur ignores the request. If Merlin truly didn’t want him to look, he could just stop with the ass shaking, which he’s showing no inclination to do. If anything, he seems to be getting more into it, sliding over to grab his rolling pin with an extra swivel of his hips that makes him look straight out of a G-Eazy video.

“Where _did_ you learn to dance?”

Merlin laughs. “Arthur, it’s just club stuff. I’m gay. It’s pretty much a requirement.”

“What, do they make you pass a class to get certification?”

“Most of us are born with it, actually. It’s an instinctual part of the queer mating ritual. Haven’t you seen the documentary?”

“Must’ve missed that one. If I’m honest, David Attenborough sends me straight to sleep.”

“Shame.” Merlin licks a bit of cherry filling off the wooden spoon, which finally succeeds in dragging Arthur’s eyes away from Merlin’s oddly hypnotic ass. Merlin winks.

“Right.” Arthur stands up. “Come on, then.”

“Huh?”

“There’s only so much I can learn by observation, isn’t there? I need practice.” He holds out his hand. Merlin hesitates a moment, then puts down his spoon and takes it.

It takes a few moments of fumbling, looking back and forth between the people in the video and the situation in front of him, to figure out where all of their hands should go and how far apart they should be. Merlin laughs as Arthur tugs him closer, pushes him farther away, and then pulls him in again all within a few seconds.

“I don’t think they measure by the millimeter.” His hand is resting on Arthur’s shoulder; Arthur realizes he’s unconsciously flexing his delts in response. He makes himself relax—he’s here to learn, not show off how much he’s been going to the gym lately. (Merlin’s hand squeezes once, lightly, which Arthur appreciates. At least his hard work isn’t going _completely_ unnoticed.)

It soon becomes clear that whatever talent Merlin has acquired in the gyration department does not translate to anything involving footwork. He steps on Arthur’s toes so often that Arthur would suspect him of doing it on purpose, except there’s no way Merlin would have such good aim.

“So is your cousin Cuban? Marrying a Cuban?”

Arthur snorts. “None of the above. Let’s just say this time last year she was really into yoga, and the year before that I think it was Native American beadwork.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. The other _other_ reason I have to go, besides the free booze and that Dad would kill me, is to stop her and Morgana from scratching each other’s eyes out. They have…fundamental differences.”

He tries to spin Merlin under his arm and ends up having to catch him from falling flat on his face.

“I take it back. I’m sorry for ever suggesting you could dance.”

“Apology accepted,” Merlin says, rather than pointing out that they’ve both flip-flopped on this issue several times in the last fifteen minutes. “You seem to be getting the hang of it, though.”

“You said it, not me.” From what Arthur can tell, the fundamental box-step movement is simple enough—for anyone with even a basic sense of balance and rhythm, that is, a.k.a. anyone not Merlin—but he can’t help but suspect day-of factors will challenge his easy mastery. “It’d be nice if you were a good foot shorter. I’ve met the girl I’m to partner with, and she’s about the size of a toadstool.”

“Sorry,” Merlin says, playing contrite. “Would it help the illusion if I put on a dress?”

Arthur considers, leading Merlin in another spin, this time carefully accounting for his propensity to teeter over at the slightest provocation. “It might. Why, do you have something?”

Merlin laughs. “I was joking.” But there’s something in the look Merlin gives him—assessing, or surprised, or curious, or—Arthur’s not quite sure.

“What?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just—most guys, most straight guys, I mean, would feel threatened by the idea of me wearing a dress.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Merlin, the idea of you in a dress is about the least threatening thing I can think of.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, giving Arthur’s shoulder a shove that Arthur very smoothly turns into part of the dance. “You know what I mean. Their _masculinity_ would be threatened. I just haven’t met many straight men who are so comfortable with—this. Dancing. Joking about queer mating rituals. Any of it, really.”

Arthur feels a surge of pride, that same awful smugness about being a wonderful person that his sister had (rightly) stamped out of him when he was sixteen. He does his best to tamp it back down, covering with a shrug. “I suppose I’m just very secure in my sexuality. No harm in having a bit of fun if none of it means anything, is there?”

Merlin’s smile falters, and Arthur wonders if maybe he said something wrong. But it turns out Merlin has just finally remembered the pies he was meant to be baking, which Arthur can hardly begrudge him—and besides, he thinks, closing the tabs playing rumba videos, there’s only so much his cousin can reasonably expect from him.

 

In the simple process of getting into his apartment, Arthur manages to drop his keys, stub his toe, and spill half his coffee down his shirt, because that’s just the sort of day he’s having. As though it’s not enough that his own father cancelled on him. The truth is, Arthur is somewhat relieved—as much as he loves his dad, he isn’t particularly in the mood to have all his life choices scrutinized and questioned over a weekend in the country. But the last-minute nature of the cancellation is galling. He’d arranged his entire schedule around this weekend. If Uther had called even half an hour earlier, he could have gone on that camping trip with Leon. Instead, it’s Friday evening and Arthur is staring down the barrel of a suddenly empty weekend, and to make matters worse, Merlin isn’t even home.

He cuts his losses with the coffee—and the shirt—and puts the kettle on. After a moment’s consideration, he spikes his tea with a shot or two of vodka. He brings up a football match he’d recorded on the telly, just something to pay half attention to, and settles into the sofa with his laptop.

It’s not until he hears the key scraping the lock that he realizes it’s gotten dark around him while he’s been alternately absorbed in his laptop and the telly (and fine, occasionally his phone; call him a Millennial and give him an avocado). This has happened a few times in the past, and he knows it means Merlin’s going to give him a _look_ and ask why he’s sitting in the dark, and Arthur will protest that it wasn’t dark when he sat down, and Merlin will lecture him about how the strain is bad for his eyes, and then maybe they’ll watch a movie even though it’s not officially Movie Night. Arthur’s already looking forward to it, despite the _look_ and the lecture, and all of this is going on in his head in the matter of seconds it takes Merlin to turn the key in the lock. Except it does seem to be taking a second or two longer than usual, like Merlin’s having a bit of a struggle.

Before Arthur can get up to let him in (or better yet, turn on the lights to head off Merlin’s all-too-predictable teasing), the door opens and Merlin tumbles in. For a moment he’s just a dark silhouette, gangly arms and four legs and a series of soft noises—

Wait, _four_ legs?

Someone stumbles into Arthur’s shin, and then it’s all startled yelps and flailing and confusion until Arthur finally, blessedly, finds the light switch. And then his stomach drops to his feet and he wishes he hadn’t.

Merlin’s lips are kiss-swollen, his hair disarrayed, pupils blown. His shirt is rucked up on one side, exposing a pale expanse of skin. And some bloke has a proprietary hand on his hipbone. Some similarly disheveled, hard-breathing bloke with a visible erection straining through his jeans, and all of a sudden Arthur’s stomach turns and he thinks he might be sick.

It’s not a turn of phrase, the way Gwaine claims Lance and Gwen’s sweet nothings make him sick, or everyone else claims Gwaine’s lechery makes _them_ sick. Arthur actually feels his gag reflex kick in, and has to concentrate extremely hard on breathing in order not to vomit all over Merlin and his—this guy.

Merlin is saying something typically rambling, all “sorry for kicking you” and “I thought you were out” and “why were you sitting in the dark _again_ , remember your eyes” but Arthur can’t concentrate. He needs air.

“You alright, mate?” the guy—Merlin’s guy—asks, peering at Arthur with a look of concern. “You look a bit green.”

“Fine,” Arthur bites out. “I’ll just—get out of your hair, yeah?”

“Oh, you don’t have to—” Merlin starts, tomato red. The bloke’s hand is still resting on Merlin’s hip, like it’s been permanently glued. Arthur yanks on his jacket with unnecessary force.

“I was going out anyway,” he says, and then he flees.

 

He ends up at Gwaine’s, mostly because he doesn’t know where else to go. It’s patently ridiculous: he’s a grown man, not some first-year uni student sharing a one-bedroom flat. He should not have to crash on a friend’s couch because his flatmate has someone over. The word “sexiled” should not be in his vocabulary.

But when he thinks of going back, his stomach curdles all over again, and he thinks of Merlin’s lips on That Guy’s lips, of Merlin’s lips on That Guy’s dick, thinks of That Guy’s dick in Merlin’s—and then he has to close his eyes and wait for the nausea to pass.

Which is how he ends up at Gwaine’s flat, letting himself in with the spare key Gwaine offers to all his friends on a No-Questions-Asked basis. It’s a policy Arthur has never had to take advantage of before, because again: grown man, but he’s stupidly relieved when he finds the apartment deserted. (Whatever Gwaine’s official policy, Arthur’s pretty sure he’d take one look at him and start asking questions.)

He texts Gwane: _at yours. you’re out of beer. coming back tonight?_

A few minutes later his phone buzzes with a response.

_you twat, that belgian shit ain’t cheap._

_based on the look this blonde bird is giving me, i’m either about to get laid or tied up and murdered in a basement. either way, won’t be making it home_

_did merlin kick you out for being a beer-thieving twat_

Arthur doesn’t reply, even though (or perhaps because) he’s been proven completely right, as far as “no questions asked” goes. The sick feeling in his stomach has been replaced by a slightly _different_ sick feeling: guilt. Gwaine’s text has reminded him of a time in uni when Arthur, too drunk to get himself home after a raucous party, crashed on Gwaine’s couch while Gwaine and some girl had hooked up in the bedroom, separated from him only by a couple feet and one paper-thin wall. Would Arthur have tolerated the situation so well had “some girl” been “some guy”? If Gwaine had texted him just now about a “blond bloke” rather than a “blonde bird,” would Arthur have his head between his legs again, fighting to keep the bile at bay?

When he thinks about it, he supposes he’s never been truly tested. His mate in sixth form, fresh out of the closet and as clueless as the rest of them not-so-secretly were then about dating and intimacy and all that rubbish, kept his romantic life largely under wraps. Gay sex scenes in movies have never bothered Arthur, but then, neither do violent or gory ones, and he’s pretty sure that if he saw someone’s head chopped off in real life he would not bear it as stoically as he does when watching _Highlander_.

On the other hand, he hasn’t lived under a rock: he’s seen guys kiss and dance and grope one another, and none of that ever made him feel like _this_. Hell, now that he thinks about it, he _has_ witnessed Gwaine with a guy in worse states than Merlin was just in. Remembering that doesn’t elicit any particularly strong reaction, and yet the mere incidental thought of Merlin cues up the _Merlin’s lips on That Guy’s lips, Merlin’s lips on That Guy’s dick, That Guy’s dick_ — _oh God—deep breaths—_ track all over again.

Maybe he’s fine with gay guys right up until he has to live with one. Or maybe he’s fine with gay guys as long as they act straight enough, up until the moment he’s forced to confront a gay guy who might actually be a _bottom_ , because that’s the part he can’t stop imagining, fixating on, the idea of what someone might be doing _to_ Merlin. There are a million ways to explain Arthur’s newly discovered strain of immense hypocrisy, none of them ideas he wants to entertain about himself, none of them boding anything good for the very qualities he prides himself on, like open-mindedness and being a good friend.

_not making it back tonight_ , he types to Merlin, thumb hovering over the send button. He should soften the tone with some cheeky comment, like _don’t wait up_ or _have fun_ or _don’t do anything I wouldn’t do_ , perhaps followed by a winky emoji to really drive the point home. That’s what he’d do with any of his other mates, right? (He doesn’t actually know, mostly because he can’t imagine being in this situation with any of his other mates to begin with.) But the thought of typing any one of those things is about as appealing as the thought of eating a breakfast of half a dozen rotten eggs, so he just sends it as is. It occurs to him, too late, that Merlin might read it and assume that Arthur, too, is off getting lucky somewhere, and wonders briefly whether he should clarify.

Except why should Merlin care? And why should Arthur care whether Merlin cares? If anything, Merlin would probably be relieved. Arthur puts his phone on silent and tries to remember where his life went so wrong.

 

He has to go home sometime, so Arthur decides to head off awkwardness at the pass.

_Farmer’s market today?_ he texts Merlin. Merlin is always saying he wants to go but can never get himself out of bed early enough. It’s six-thirty on a Saturday and Arthur has given up hope of getting any solid amount of sleep, while Merlin probably—Arthur shudders, heading that thought off at the pass too.

_yes!!_ texts Merlin.

Arthur keeps up his pattern of thinking of something he should probably add—an invitation for Merlin to bring his bloke along, in this case—and then not doing it. Merlin doesn’t need a fucking permission slip; if he wants to bring That Guy with him he will, and that will be that.

He doesn’t, thankfully. Merlin is standing at their agreed-upon corner with his hands wrapped around two steaming cups, looking none the worse for wear, and Arthur feels a bit of the tension seep out of his shoulders when he realizes that just seeing Merlin’s face does not, at least, make him want to vomit.

Merlin brightens when he sees Arthur come towards him. He holds out one of the cups. “Morning. Coffee?”

Arthur takes it, grateful for the warmth that spreads from his hands throughout his whole body faster than should be scientifically possible, especially considering he hasn’t taken a sip yet. “Is it—”

“Black as your soul,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes. “If it tastes good, I’ve given you the wrong one. Come on, there’s a stand over there selling donuts.”

They head down the blocked-off street, winding their way through crowds of people and the occasional dog, the latter of which Merlin always stops to pet. (Usually completely without regard to who might be walking behind him when he suddenly stops and bends over, which is annoying enough when that person is Arthur, but downright dangerous when that person is—or at least appears to be—a seven-foot-tall mafia member. Arthur has to step between the two to prevent Merlin getting his ass kicked, all while Merlin is too busy getting his face licked by corgis to notice.) Arthur points out that for an event that bills itself as a Farmer’s Market, a shockingly high percentage of stalls don’t seem to sell any produce whatsoever, and Merlin calls him a persnickety cobloaf. (Arthur has to give him points for originality.) They’ve turned onto a street where most of the vendors seem to have gotten “Farmer’s Market” confused with “Renaissance Faire” when Arthur’s phone buzzes with a series of texts.

_beer is one thing, but finishing off my mint choc chip?? unforgivable_

_it’s a wonder merlin hasn’t kicked you out sooner if this is the kind of flatmate you are_

_you’re lucky you’ve got such a great arse_

_did you clean my stove? it looks better_

_what’s your netflix password_

“Fun night?” Merlin’s smile is tight, tense at the edges. So he does think Arthur hooked up with someone last night—which is better than the truth. Arthur has no idea how he’d begin to explain _that_.

He shrugs. “All right.” He sends Gwaine his Netflix password while Merlin browses so-called “healing crystals.” Then he scrapes together what’s left of his human decency, shoves down the much less decent part of him that’s demanding he not say anything, and asks, “How about you? You seemed like you were—enjoying yourself.”

“I was,” Merlin agrees. “Right up until I tripped over my roommate having an Emperor Palpatine moment in the dark.”

“Sorry, did I kill the mood?” Arthur doesn’t bother to sound sorry. Lack of remorse over accidental cockblocking falls squarely under “normal teasing friendship behavior,” he’s pretty sure.

“Not _permanently_. Although it was a bit of a dampener when the first words out of his mouth after you left were ‘Your roommate is hot.’”

It takes Arthur several moments to move on from the cheeky way Merlin said “not _permanently_ ” and process his next sentence. When it does penetrate, he nearly drops the crystal (“for insight and clarity,” the tag claims) he’d been idly turning over.

“ _What_?”

“Oh yes. He tried to convince me to call you back and invite you for a threesome. I said no, of course,” Merlin hurriedly adds, finally noticing that Arthur is not finding this story as amusing as he seems to. “I did tell him you were straight.”

“Right. Well.” Arthur casts about for something, anything to get them off this ghastly topic. He grabs a feathery monstrosity of a hat from the next stall over and yanks it over Merlin’s head. He grins, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

“Suits you,” he says. Merlin crosses his arms, giving him a deeply unimpressed look. “I’m serious, Merlin, you look dashing. Tell you what, I’ll buy it for you. Consider it a gift.”

“If you’re going to get me anything,” Merlin says, fingering a rack of long, flowy, medieval-style dresses, “shouldn’t it be useful to you as well? Two birds, one stone and all that?”

“I don’t follow.”

Merlin pulls out a velvet dress in wine red, holding it against himself and spinning. “For the rumba! What do you think?”

Arthur swallows, chest suddenly tight with shame and a strange sense of dread. Merlin still thinks of Arthur as he did during that earlier conversation—that Arthur is some special breed of straight guy, enlightened and accepting where others are defensive and squirrely. He doesn’t realize that Arthur is worse than all those other guys combined, his prejudice so deeply internalized that the mere thought of one of his closest friends being intimate with someone—which by all rights should make Arthur as happy as he was for Gwen and Lancelot—makes him physically ill. And Arthur had felt _smug_ about Merlin’s praise, too. This can only be karma, the worst kind of cruel irony.

Merlin seems to realize his discomfort, and puts the dress away, something like a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. Arthur winces.

“Wait.” Merlin’s eyes are uncertain when he turns to face him. Arthur tugs off the hat—much more gently than he’d put it on—and lays a flower crown in its place.

“Compromise,” he says, and Merlin smiles.


	3. lying through my teeth

Weeks pass, but the nausea doesn’t. It’s not that Merlin and That Guy—Ewan, Arthur learns, despite his best efforts not to—make a habit of blatant PDA. Far from it. Usually, when Ewan comes over, he and Merlin spend the whole time shut in Merlin’s room, which is somehow almost worse. From the moment he arrives to the moment he leaves, every cell in Arthur’s body vibrates with a kind of gut-churning anxiety. Part of him wants to label it protectiveness, like he did when Merlin asked about Gwaine, or when eighty percent of the male population started hitting on Morgana in increasingly creepy ways. He just doesn’t want to see Merlin get hurt. Except that doesn’t work, because Merlin is a fully willing participant in his… _activities_ with Ewan, and the idea that he needs protection from lecherous gay men is every kind of wrong and bigoted and archaic. Which Arthur _knows_ , and yet he can’t see Ewan without an overwhelming urge to punch him in the face.

When all other attempts at distraction fail, he ends up at the gym. It gets him out of the flat while Ewan is over, and the more _images_ crowd into his mind, the harder he pushes himself, as though if he just runs fast enough he’ll be able to escape the deep-seated internalized homophobia that’s apparently been lying dormant in him this whole time.

He returns home from a particularly punishing workout to find Ewan’s car has disappeared from the lot while he’s been gone. Mood considerably lighter, Arthur strolls inside, towel inadvertently stolen from the gym still slung around his neck.

Merlin passes in front of him on his way to the shower, and Arthur snaps his towel at Merlin’s ass. He shies away with a satisfying yelp—which becomes a much less satisfying yelp, one that sounds genuinely pained, accompanied by a poorly-masked grimace.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks, shifting into concern.

“Nothing,” Merlin says though gritted teeth. To Arthur’s unimpressed look, he says, “Just pulled a calf muscle or something, s’not serious.”

Arthur’s already kneeling, hands wrapped around Merlin’s ankle, right at his Achilles tendon. “Rotate,” he commands. He senses rather than sees Merlin’s eye roll, but then (as Arthur knew he would) Merlin complies. The hiss of pain tells him all he needs to know.

“How on earth did you pull a muscle?” Arthur asks, sliding his hands further up, feeling for strain, squeezing gently behind the knee. “You never _do_ anything.”

“Lies and propaganda. Last week I went to yoga with Gwen. And I do cardio, sometimes.”

Arthur looks up, intending to demand what, exactly, Merlin considers cardio—walking the distance between the fridge and the sofa?—but the words die on his tongue when his eyes meet Merlin’s. This angle—is this what Ewan sees? Or do they only do it the other way around, Merlin kneeling, Merlin taking—

Before he can finish that thought (thank God), another takes its place, equally unbidden. Merlin bent over the sofa yesterday, straining for the remote, because he’s too lazy or impatient or just plain _Merlin_ to walk the two steps around and grab it the normal way. _That_ view—was that something Ewan saw, Merlin’s ass in the air, downward-facing dog with a sofa in place of the yoga mat? Arthur’s stomach turns over.

Merlin swallows, a bob of the Adam’s apple, and Arthur suddenly, desperately, doesn’t want to know what Merlin considers cardio, nor what sort of physical activity might have led to this injury.

“Right,” Arthur says, still—absurdly—kneeling at Merlin’s feet, hands wrapped around his calf like he’s laying on a benediction. Merlin, for his part, seems to have frozen in place, save for a near-imperceptible quiver that Arthur can feel traveling beneath his skin. They still haven’t broken eye contact. Arthur clears his throat. “Get down here.” He pulls Merlin’s leg forward at the knee, and Merlin—predictably—falls to the floor.

“What was that for?” Merlin squawks.

“I’m going to show you some stretches.”

“You’re going to what?”

“Stretches, Merlin. They’re something people who exercise do. It’ll make your leg feel better.”

“But—you’re—” Merlin’s eyes travel over Arthur’s body, then quickly snap back up. He looks faintly pink. Glancing down at himself, Arthur realizes what he must be thinking: Arthur’s still post-workout, sweaty and flushed.

“I can shower first, if you’re that worried about being sweat on—”

“No,” Merlin says quickly. “No, let’s just—let’s just get this over with.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “There’s the spirit. Remind me never to help you again.”

“Don’t think you need reminding, if history’s anything to go by,” Merlin says, contorting himself into a position that looks more likely to break a bone than to soothe pain. Arthur huffs an exasperated breath and starts rearranging his limbs.

Merlin proves a surprisingly acquiescent student, even if Arthur has to constantly tug his legs and arms into place, as he’s seemingly incapable of following verbal _or_ visual instructions. Arthur’s no physical therapist, but he knows the basics, and he takes Merlin through a series of stretches that should help.

“What, that’s it?” Merlin says, when Arthur pronounces the session done and stands up, grabbing the towel he’d dropped on the floor.

“Is there more you need me to teach you, _Mer_ lin? How to do the splits? Back handspring? Walk on your knees?”

Merlin flops onto his back, flings his arms over his face, and groans. Arthur takes that as a no.

“I’m going to shower. I’ll try not to use up all the hot water.”

“Might help if you did,” Merlin mutters. Arthur ignores him; he doesn’t smell _that_ bad. If Merlin ever actually worked out, maybe he wouldn’t be so offended by a little sweat.

And despite himself, despite his best intentions, despite everything, the _if Merlin exercised_ thought leads to _Merlin sweaty and flushed_ , from which it is no distance at all to the quagmire of _Merlin having sex with Ewan_ , and Arthur is in the weeds again, right back where he started.

 

“Well, that was exactly what I thought.” Arthur tosses his keys onto the kitchen table, loosening his tie before the front door has fully shut behind him.

“What?”

Merlin’s curled up on the sofa. He’s wearing the blue Chelsea hoodie Arthur got him, he notes with approval. Arthur had to run it through the wash about a dozen times before Merlin decided it was soft enough to serve as a suitable replacement for that damned Arsenal hoodie, but it was worth it. At least there’s one fewer thing in the apartment he wants to claw his eyes out upon seeing.

“A set-up by Dad. ‘Vivan’s looking for advice on breaking into the industry,’ my ass. More like—”

“Wait, let me guess. Was she…looking to break into your pants?”

Arthur tosses his jacket over Merlin’s head in lieu of a coatrack, making him look like a very posh ghost. Merlin’s hair is mussed when he pulls it off.

“So…you came back?” Merlin’s eyes follow him as he crosses to his bedroom. Arthur strides to his dresser, unbuttoning his shirt along the way, not bothering to shut the door behind him. (It’s not like Merlin can see from his angle anyway.)

“No, I’m still there. I’m talking to you via hologram.”

He moves to stand in the doorway, pulling on a t-shirt, mostly so he can give Merlin his _you’re being even stupider than usual_ look. Merlin, absently stroking Arthur’s jacket like it’s a cat, rolls his eyes.

“I only mean…” He shrugs. “So it’s a set-up. You didn’t go out for drinks after? Or back to her place, maybe?”

“With someone my _father_ set me up on a blind date with? Not even a blind date, a _surprise_ blind date, one he lied about being a business meeting.”

Merlin’s eyebrows raise, just a fraction. “I looked her up, Vivian. She’s hot.”

Arthur shrugs, uncomfortable. “Not really my type, I suppose,” he says, turning away in search of more comfortable trousers, though he’d still be hard-pressed to say what his type actually is.

 _Besides_ , he wants to add, _it’s Movie Night_ , but he doesn’t exactly know when a loosely-observed roommate tradition began to take priority over the possibility of sex.

When Arthur reemerges, Merlin looks like he wants to keep pressing—why he’s so interested in whether or not Arthur is interested in this random girl, Arthur has no idea—but he lets it go when Arthur joins him on the sofa, drawing his legs up to make room, angling his body toward Arthur’s.

“My turn to pick?” Arthur says, picking up the remote. Merlin snatches it away.

“You always think it’s your turn. I don’t think you understand what _turn_ means.”

“It’s not my fault I have impeccable taste. I’m only trying to be kind, saving you from the trash you normally—” Merlin hits Arthur with a pillow, turning his last word into a sort of muffled _mmf_.

“We’re watching _Sherlock Holmes_.”

Arthur frowns. “The Benadryl Cumberbatch show?”

“Movie. Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law. Pass me that pillow back.”

Arthur does. They watch the movie in companionable silence, broken only occasionally by commentary, until Merlin’s phone buzzes about half an hour in. Arthur’s heart sinks. He knows Merlin could have received a text from any number of people—but over the past several weeks, he’s come to associate that sound with Ewan.

“Booty call?” he asks, straining to keep his voice light as he pauses the film.

Merlin snorts, typing out a reply. “Yeah. Romantic, innit?” He tucks the phone under his leg and looks at Arthur expectantly.

“Is he coming here, or are you going there?”

Merlin gives him a funny look. “Neither. It’s Movie Night. I’m not going to bail halfway through. I’d never know how it ends.”

“I think Sherlock Holmes is probably going to solve the mystery.”

“You _think_ , but you don’t _know_. M’feet are cold.” The last bit is added, Arthur presumes, to explain why Merlin just shoved his toes under Arthur’s leg. Arthur adjusts Merlin’s blanket—a blanket _and_ a hoodie _and_ socks _and_ Arthur’s leg; Merlin really is the most ridiculous person he’s ever met—around Merlin’s feet to buy time. He has to ask. He has to know. Anyway, he rationalizes, it’s what a friend would do: take an interest in their friend’s life, romantic or otherwise.

He swallows past the bile already rising in his throat. “You and Ewan, are you…serious?”

Merlin snorts again, a gut reaction. Arthur looks up, fingers flexing around the remote.

“Uh, no. Definitely not. It’s like…what you had with Sophia.”

“Friends with benefits?”

Merlin gives him a look that clearly says _who do you think you’re kidding_. “Fuckbuddies.” His phone buzzes again, and he frowns at the text. “Probably not for much longer, though. He’s been a bit of a dick lately. And the sex isn’t good enough to make up for it.”

“How good is it?” The words are out before Arthur can stop himself. His subconscious must truly hate him.

Merlin screws up his face like he’s giving it serious consideration. “Six point five? Seven on a good day. There was one four, but there were outlying circumstances.”

Arthur’s already shaking his head, reaching for his beer. “Call it off. Six point five justifies fuck all.”

Merlin cocks his head. “What would a ten justify?”

“I suppose…murder?”

“I might help hide the body for a ten,” Merlin admits.

“Well, clearly neither of us is getting laid tonight,” Arthur says, leaving out the detail that they’ve both turned down open invitations. “Shall we continue the movie?”

“By all means,” Merlin says, and Arthur presses play.

 

After that, things improve. Arthur starts to think he won’t actually have to move out, as was briefly looking a worrying possibility. The worst of it came when a group of their friends wanted to go clubbing, and Arthur had to beg off, because even the possibility that he might have to see Merlin dancing with other guys—swiveling those hips like he did for Arthur, but _meaning_ it this time, grinding up on some sweaty gross guy with all the intention that implied—made him so uncomfortable that he wanted to crawl out of his skin. So he claimed a headache and stayed home while his friends celebrated—a depressing situation made all the worse when Merlin came home at three in the morning, drunk but not incoherent, shoving a grease-stained packet of chips at him “to make you feel better, sweetcheeks.” He then patted Arthur’s cheek, gave him a strangely sad smile, and fell face-first onto Arthur’s bed. Arthur had to haul him into his own room, wrestle off his shoes and jacket, and tuck him into bed, all while hating himself for not being the man Merlin thought he was, not deserving any of his caring or thoughtfulness.

But Ewan and Merlin are through, and things seem to have gone back to the way they were before this whole mess started. They have Movie Nights, and Merlin makes dinner, and Arthur goes to the gym a normal, healthy amount that doesn’t have him on the fast track toward becoming the Hulk, and—most important by far—he isn’t forced to think about Merlin’s sex life. He knows it can’t continue like this forever, but part of him—not a part he’s proud of—hopes Merlin will lead a celibate, Jedi-inspired existence until—until what? Until Arthur gets too old and too independently wealthy to need a flatmate, perhaps.

But that dream, selfish and implausible as it is, comes crashing down the day Arthur emerges from his bedroom and catches Merlin on the sofa with another guy.

 _Catches_ may not be the right word; they’re not technically _doing_ anything. Merlin has his laptop open, and he’s showing the guy something on his screen, wholly innocuous, _except_ —except there’s something about the way the guy is positioned on the sofa, angled toward Merlin and closer than he needs to be, and as Arthur watches, the guy points at something on the screen and then casually drops his hand onto Merlin’s knee, a lingering, intimate gesture. Whatever he said— _murmured_ , in a low voice, as though they’re in their own private world—makes Merlin laugh, head thrown back, neck long and pale and exposed, and maybe there’s something warped about Arthur’s perspective, but he swears the guy’s eyes caress Merlin’s neck, that he swallows and licks his lips, teeth flashing, a hungry glint in his eyes.

Arthur slams the door.

Merlin and the guy look at him. Merlin smiles, bright and cheery.

“Morning! I made pancakes. There’s a stack in the oven if you want them.”

“They’re delicious,” says the guy, though Arthur can’t remember asking for his opinion.

Merlin and the guy continue to talk in low tones as Arthur pours himself a bowl of cereal, opening cabinets and shutting the fridge and pulling out his chair all a little more violently than necessary. After a few minutes, Merlin excuses himself to the loo. Arthur glances up at the guy, trying to assess whether he’s close to leaving, but he catches Arthur looking. Shit.

“It’s Arthur, right?” the guy says, smiling.

“That’s right,” Arthur says, getting up to get more milk out of the fridge.

“I’m Daegal.”

Arthur makes a vague sound of acknowledgement.

“I think I know your sister,” the guy continues, as Arthur sits back down. “…Morgana?”

Arthur takes a big bite of cereal. He can still feel the guy’s—Daegal’s—eyes on him after several long moments. He finishes chewing and raises his eyebrows. “And?”

“Uh.” Daegal looks confused, maybe a bit embarrassed. Arthur honestly doesn’t know what the guy expected from him. He has a sister. His sister has met people. What the fuck is Arthur supposed to do with this information? “Nothing. Never mind.”

Merlin emerges from the loo as Arthur resumes eating. He sits back down on the sofa—not quite as close as he was before, Arthur notices—and reabsorbs himself in his laptop. Daegal, for his part, is distracted by his own phone, and something like relief seeps through Arthur’s body.

When he’s done he washes his bowl in the sink, then goes into his room to retrieve his messenger bag. It’s a weekend, but his boss sent him home with several thick files to review, which need to be spread out on a larger surface than his desk. (That’s what he tells himself, anyway, and it seems to make sense. But there’s also the fact, niggling in the back of his mind, that the only thing worse than being in the same room with Merlin and his—boyfriend or hookup or fuckbuddy or whatever-the-fuck—is being in the next room over, wondering what they’re up to.)

His mood instantly sours when he reemerges. Daegal’s practically in Merlin’s lap, and they’re both giggling like goddamn schoolgirls. Arthur drops his bag on the table with a heavy thud.

He tries to concentrate on the work in front of him, but it’s a lost cause from the beginning. Merlin and Daegal’s conversation hovers at a level just loud enough that Arthur can’t tune them out, but not loud enough for him to actually work out what they’re saying. At one point he thinks he sees them kiss out of the corner of his eye and nearly gives himself whiplash. (It turns out Merlin’s just thumbing an eyelash off Daegal’s cheek, but somehow the twisting, clawing sensation in Arthur’s gut doesn’t find that much better.)

“Do you mind?” he finally snaps. “I’m trying to work.”

Merlin sits up, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “How are we keeping you from working?”

Arthur grits his teeth. “Couldn’t you—” He stops himself from saying _get a room_ just in time. “—go do this somewhere else? Surely there’s someplace you could cuddle and discuss the various sisters you know to someone who actually cares.”

Merlin is looking at him like he just grew another head. “…What?”

“Arthur and I were talking about how I’ve met his sister while you were in the bathroom,” Daegal explains (playing a bit fast and loose with the truth, but that’s none of Arthur’s concern).

“Oh,” says Merlin, looking understandably doubtful as to how that settles anything. “How do you know Morgana?”

“Er, that’s the part I hadn’t gotten to yet.” To Arthur, Daegal says, “See, Merlin and I met at this conference—but the funny thing is that last year I actually met Morgana at that same conference, except that time I wasn’t really supposed to be there.”

“Fascinating,” Arthur says. His sarcasm comes out a little harsher than he intended it to—it’s possible Daegal was merely taking a pause rather than ending his sentence—but to be fair, he hadn’t intended to be nice.

Arthur can no longer read the expression on Merlin’s face, only that Merlin is staring at him with its full force. Daegal looks back and forth between the two of them, mouth open like he’s going to continue his story, even though that ship has clearly sailed. He switches tacks.

“I should get going,” he says, standing up.

“What?” Merlin says, finally wrenching his eyes away from Arthur. “No, you don’t have to—”

“It’s fine, honestly—I should’ve gone earlier, there’s a lot I have to do today. Errands and stuff. I’ll get out of your hair.” Daegal’s already at the door, fumbling for the handle like a horror movie victim trying to escape a serial killer. “Merlin, we’ll—um, talk. Nice meeting you, Arthur.” And he’s gone.

Merlin whirls on Arthur the second the door closes. There’s no mistaking his expression this time: murderous anger. “The _fuck_ was that?”

“What?” Arthur says, immediately on the defensive. Most of the tension in his shoulders evaporated when the door shut, but he’s still annoyed at Merlin for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. “I have work to do, and it’s difficult to concentrate when you’re canoodling in the corner.”

“I’ve always known you’re a dick, but that—that was _insane_. What are you, a primary school bully?”

“Maybe I’m just sick of walking in on my flatmate with his hand down some guy’s pants every day of the fucking week—” Arthur says, aware his voice is getting rapidly louder but unable to stop it.

“We weren’t even—” Merlin splutters. “Hold on, is that what all this is about? Gilli and Ewan and—Jesus, Arthur, you are such a fucking hypocrite! What about Sophia? I was forced to watch that _display_ for nearly three months—”

“I don’t recall holding a gun to your head.”

Merlin runs a hand over his head and down his face, groaning. “That’s not what…look.” He sighs heavily. “I’m gonna—I’ve got to get out of here. We both need to cool off. We can talk about—all of this—later.”

“Fine. Say hi to Will for me.”

Merlin looks up again, his expression almost…calculating. He takes a step forward. “Maybe I’ll go after Daegal.”

“Great,” Arthur says coolly, ignoring the return of that twisting, clawing creature in his stomach.

“That’s cool with you, right? If I go to Daegal’s and—what was it? Stick my hand down his trousers? Maybe we’ll do more than that, start with mouthing him off a bit—”

“Jesus Christ, Merlin, that’s—” Arthur bites down on the word _disgusting_ , but he can’t stop the shiver of revulsion that travels through him. The idea of Merlin on his knees for Daegal makes him itch to throw a vase at the wall. And he doesn’t even own a vase.

“But that wouldn’t bother you, right? As long as it’s at his place? Out of sight, out of mind and all that.” The look in Merlin’s eyes makes Arthur think he’s being tested on something—and whatever it is, he absolutely did not study for it.

“Merlin, I could not give less of a fuck who you shag.”

Merlin’s face crumples, so quick Arthur might have imagined it, then hardens back into an even sharper anger. “Good to know.”

He slams the door on his way out, an ugly echo of how Arthur had started the morning. Arthur does the only thing he knows how in this situation: he goes to the gym.

When he returns, sweaty and sore and calmer only in the sense that he no longer has enough energy to feel anything acutely, he decides to reheat yesterday’s pizza. He only gets as far as opening the oven before the sight of a stack of pancakes stops him cold. They’re raisin-walnut-pancakes. Raisins and walnuts, both things that Merlin hates, particularly in pancakes.

Arthur swallows his pride—chokes on it, just a little, but at least he doesn’t throw it up—and calls Morgana.

**Author's Note:**

> In the [words of Spinal Tap](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-BYzaDwNoE), I'm looking for "pound notes, [loose change](https://ko-fi.com/ladililn), bad checks, anything," where "pound notes" means "kudos" and "bad checks" means "comments" and "loose change" means "loose change" and "anything" means "literally any form of validation, even the tiniest scrap of praise." In all seriousness, thanks for reading, and I do love to hear from you! ♥


End file.
